The old cliché is true: bombing while performing comedy is utter hell. And every comic, no matter how unique, talented or plain funny, has bombed more than a few times. Part of the process. Part of the scene. Inescapable. I've seen top flight comics die in front of silent, cynical crowds, their acts fast becoming feverish attempts to keep the plane from hitting the control tower. And, yes, I've died a thousand deaths onstage as well, both singly and with a group, the only salvation being the scattered laughter from the other comics at the back of the room. At that point, you're essentially playing to the band. In fact, some of my bombing experiences won over comics who liked my material despite what the audience thought, and offered to pay for it. So some silver was yanked from those dark, swirling clouds.
After watching Michael Richards' meltdown from last Friday night, however, I don't see how he gets anything back. It's one of the saddest and most perplexing plummets I think I've ever seen. I'm sure most of you have seen it, but if not, here it is:
<< Home